


Bring a Claw to a Fist Fight

by Piinutbutter



Category: Street Fighter (1994)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, Cage Fights, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 00:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19262275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/pseuds/Piinutbutter
Summary: If there’s one thing Sagat knows, it’s business. Love - like war - is nothing more than business under a new name.





	Bring a Claw to a Fist Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeadlyWeiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyWeiss/gifts).



> Recip, I'd like to thank you. Not only for prompting me to finally watch the SF movie adaptation - which I _adored_ \- but also for giving me an excuse to listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wTXQlSEh7f4) on repeat for a few days. c:

When children are asked what they want to be when they grow up, not a whole lot of them respond with “lord of an underground criminal empire, with a lucrative side business running a cage fighting club.” Sagat certainly hadn’t planned for the life he had now. Small, inconsequential decisions over the course of his life had piled up and altered his priorities, until it had only seemed natural to become one of the most powerful men in this corner of Asia. It took a fair bit of blood, sweat, and bribery to get where he was, and frankly? Sagat couldn’t be happier.

Alone in his own personal office, Sagat let his gaze roam over the myriad of tangible luxuries he could lay claim to. Expensive paintings and trinkets from around the world lined the dark, rich wooden walls. In a safe hidden beneath his feet, piles of currency from five different nations put the budget of Shadaloo’s actual (albeit equally corrupt) government to shame. With a flick of his wrist, he could summon a beautiful woman to serve him a drink made with nothing but the most upscale liqueurs.

It was a far cry from his childhood on the hazy, poverty-stricken streets of a Thailand in the midst of upheaval both economic and cultural.

And yet Sagat wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted more. Specifically, he wanted one more thing. There was one last piece of art he needed to add to his collection; and it would take a lot more than a one-time payment to get what he was coveting this time.

Vega was...interesting. The cage fighter wasn’t of sound mind, nor did he have what one would call a “functioning moral compass,” but both were hindrances in their line of work. Vega cared only about his own beauty, and when it came to the priorities in his own personal affairs, Sagat was happy to follow suit. If there was one man in the world who was justified in his narcissism, it was his prized champion.

And therein lied the core of Sagat’s problem. As long as he’d known Vega, the fighter had never once indulged anyone romantically. For all his eagerness to flirt with his adoring fans - men and women alike - it was exceedingly rare that Vega even took someone to bed for a night. It wasn’t due to a lack of sex drive on Vega’s part, and it certainly wasn’t due to a lack of ready and _highly_ willing potential partners. No, the problem was that Vega used himself as his own standard for attractiveness. No one else was good enough for him. Especially not someone like Sagat.

Sagat would take umbrage to any suggestion that he was ugly. (And, depending on his mood, punch whoever had made the suggestion. Maybe have his men rough them up a little.) However, he had no delusions that he was any sort of pinnacle of good looks. Years of fighting, as well as the inevitable passage of time, had weathered his face, taken one of his eyes, and forced him to give up on growing hair. If you asked Sagat, he was a perfectly average catch...but Vega had no interest in average.

There was a kind of tacit agreement between the two men. Vega may not have been stable, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew, when Sagat started presenting him with a steady stream of gifts and compliments, that his boss’s motivation wasn’t simple generosity. He accepted all of the offerings with fitting smiles and gratitude, but he didn’t reciprocate. Sagat suspected that, behind his back, some of his more gossip-prone associates were shaking their heads at the lonely old man trying to bribe someone far out of his league. Let them disapprove. Sagat knew business, and love - much like war - was nothing more than business under a new name. The first skill of a master businessman, and the virtue that had gotten Sagat as far as he had in life, was patience.

Both participants in their odd little game made their intentions clear one night after a particularly profitable match. The fight had been long and glorious, and Vega was tired. Normally, Sagat would let him go and rest. Tonight, he caught Vega by the arm on his way out of the arena.

“Come with me. There’s something I want you to see.”

Vega followed him into his office. A television monitor was set on the side of the desk, placed so that the seats on both sides of the desk would have a clear view of the screen. Vega sat without asking or being asked. Sagat pulled a remote out of his suit pocket and flicked the evening’s programming on.

“You might have seen this one already,” he explained, taking his own seat across from Vega - who was already staring at the screen in surprise.

Sagat did his research when it came to anyone he was planning on putting his trust in. When Vega had first begun making ripples in the international cage fighting circuit, Sagat had almost dismissed him. A man, the rumors said, who was as beautiful as he was deadly. An exotic thing, he was - from Spain of all places, and yet he fought with the flair of a ninja. It sounded absurd, and yet Sagat was intrigued. Before Vega had even set foot on Shadaloo’s soil, Sagat had a full dossier of everything that could be found about Vega’s past. Including copies of the grainy old footage playing for them now.

On the screen, a young Vega prowled around a sandy arena. He wore a costume just as elaborate as the outfits he donned these days to accompany Sagat on excursions outside the club. This Vega had no claws, however, and his opponent was no human.

Deadly sharp horns missed Vega’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth when a dark, hulking animal charged past him. Vega dodged the bull with a grace that Sagat knew required intense work, but to the rest of the world, it looked effortless. The stunt tore a cheer from a crowd off screen, their enthusiastic shouts interlaced with a handful of salacious whistles.

“You were just a boy,” Sagat said. There was no need to hide the sincere admiration in his voice. “And yet you were already a natural performer.”

Vega grunted. “Some would say a natural killer.”

“It’s a good thing you found a career that combines your two skills, then.”

That drew a smile from Vega. “Very good, yes.”

There was silence for a while as they both watched this relic of the past. For his part, Vega seemed more entranced than Sagat had been the first time he’d viewed the footage. His eyes were warm and intent as he watched his own past performance; a performance that, while rough around the edges, already held elements of the character he’d become in the cage.

Sagat interrupted the moment Vega was having with himself. “As pleasant as the view is, I am showing you this for a reason. Let me ask you: Why did you become a bullfighter?”

That seemed to catch Vega off guard. “Why? The same reason I joined you. It was what I wanted to do.”

Not a very deep answer, but it was one. “It’s a dangerous hobby. Were you not afraid? Did you not dread being trampled or gored by the creatures you provoked?”

“Mm.” Vega seemed to think about it. “No. I would not let that happen. Just as I will not let myself lose a fight.”

“And yet, I’m sure you saw it happen around you. Matadors are injured and slain all the time. They’re done in by overestimating themselves and underestimating their bull.”

Vega made a short noise of agreement.

“You know what I think, Vega?” Sagat leaned towards him. “I think that’s the reason the bulls keep fighting. We don’t give animals enough credit. They’re smart. The bulls know they’re being put at a disadvantage. They know they’re supposed to lose. They know that, if things go as those cocky little human bastards want, they _will_ lose. Yet they fight on. They fight on, because they know that next time could be the time they drive their horns into their so-called master’s heart.”

Vega hadn’t had time to put away his mask after tonight’s match. The hand that held it was resting in his lap. He gave Sagat a long, considering look, then raised the mask to cover his heart.

“So, you are the bull in this metaphor?” He smiled, teasing. “Should I be worried for my safety?”

Sagat thumped his own chest, returning the smile. “Only that of your heart.”

“I will stay vigilant, then.”

“I wouldn’t hope for any less.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you considered coming out of retirement?”

Sagat looked up from his paperwork. Leaning on the edge of his desk was one of his informants. He had several - mostly female, all pretty - work the crowd during matches. They functioned not only as security, fully capable of taming a rowdy guest, but as Sagat’s ears on the ground. They listened in on the talk and gossip, giving Sagat an important picture of what the customers wanted to see. If word was going around one night about an up and coming new fighter who wasn’t yet in Sagat’s circle, Sagat began tracking down the combatant the following day. If the crowd consensus was that a particular repeat challenger didn’t make for a good show, Sagat wiped them from the schedule.

Of course, sometimes the gossip the informants picked up was pointless and unfounded. Sagat assumed one such rumor had prompted this question. Still, he entertained her.

“I can’t say I have.”

The informant smiled. “Perhaps you should, sir. We’re not sure where it started, but there’s talk that the legendary Iron Fist is planning to come out of retirement for one last match...against his own champion.”

Sagat rested an elbow on his desk, paperwork instantly forgotten. “Am I, now?”

“Perhaps they simply want a fight where Vega could truly meet his match. It’s not exciting if he’s guaranteed a victory every night, you know.”

Sagat saw her point. And it wasn’t as if he’d never considered stepping back into the ring. The cage had been his stage and his home for decades. As much as he enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of running his personal empire, hearing the crowd’s cheers sometimes pulled at something deep in his body, calling him to claim that adoration and thrill for himself. Calling him to remind everyone why he’d been - and perhaps still was - the best at his game.

But Sagat was a realist. He could indulge in small flights of fancy, but the fact was, he wasn’t a young man anymore. He’d fought Vega one on one when he was first considering whether to take the man under his wing, and come out on top...but that had been years ago.

Could the apprentice surpass the master now?

Perhaps the more important question was: Would the crowd be the only one such a match would benefit? Sagat slept on that for a single night. First thing in the morning, he told everyone to spread the word that Iron Fist would be making his comeback for one night only.

The club’s at-door and betting profits broke records in the evening leading up to the match. But that was the last thing on Sagat’s mind as Vega swept into his office, consternation clear on his face.

Sagat gave him an innocent smile. “Ah. I see you’ve heard the news. Are you excited for your competitor tonight?”

“What are you thinking?” Vega demanded. “You can’t-”

“Are you questioning my business decisions?” The edge in his voice wasn’t genuine, but it had Vega averting his eyes for a moment anyway. Vega sighed.

“Is that it? I am getting too uppity for you? You want to put me in my place?”

Sagat couldn’t resist pushing a little. “Oh, Vega. You’re not worried about getting beaten by a half-blind old man, are you?”

Tension pulled the corners of Vega’s eyes tight. “Sir...”

“Relax,” Sagat said. “This match is only for my own selfish enjoyment. Fight your hardest and put on a good show. Business as usual.”

The reservations Vega still held were clear on his face. But he nodded - small, almost imperceptible to one who didn’t know him intimately - and left the room without further discussion.

Part of Sagat did wonder what the true source of Vega’s concern was. Was he afraid to be bested in front of his adoring fans? Or was he hesitant to humiliate his boss in his own arena? Sagat wasn’t sure, and that made it all the more exciting.

As predicted, the club was absolutely packed with people, and all the distractions that came with them. The heady scent of drink, tobacco products, and sweat filled the air. There was little room to hear yourself think over the din of the crowd. But when the cage door closed behind Sagat and locked him into the ring, it sealed off the outside world as effectively as a soundproof chamber. He’d told Vega something, once, as a warning not to get too carried away in catering to the audience: _When it comes down to it, once you’re in the ring? The only people on the earth are you and your opponent._

Sagat - who would happily admit to indulging in a little hypocrisy now and then - had never been able to take his own advice, not fully. This moment was the closest he’d come.

Unable to resist teasing his subordinate a little, Sagat commented over the menagerie of noise. “Bare hands up against a blade? I think this fight is rigged.”

Vega shook his head at both the jab and the crowd’s responding laughs and jeers. The motion was more amusement than disapproval.

With Sagat part of the fight, one of his attendants took on the role of host. She strode to the center of the ring, raising her hand to command attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the attendant announced, her voice carrying crystal clear over the rowdy audience. “You are here to witness the fight of the century. Tonight, our challenger...” She lowered her hands toward Sagat. “The legend himself. The unstoppable king of the cage, back for one night only: Iron Fist!”

Sagat bowed. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Vega clapping formally for him along with the crowd. Cute.

“And our reigning champion...” she gestured to Vega and raised an eyebrow. “Do I even need to say his name?”

The crowd provided it for her in a rhythmic chant. Not to be outdone, Sagat joined in on the chant, pumping his fist and shouting Vega’s name along with the rest of his fans. It drew a laugh from the crowd, but Vega raised his claw to his face. The blades didn’t quite cover the warm smile on his lips.

“If you haven’t placed your bets, now’s your chance!” the announcer continued as both men strode to opposite corners of the ring. “Tonight’s pool is one of a kind, so don’t miss out!”

Sagat appreciated the emphasis. He really had hired the best.

As the hand of the match clock counted down, the announcer joined it and the crowd followed. In rhythm with their voices, Sagat grounded himself in a defensive stance. Across from him, Vega slipped his mask on. His eyes shone bright behind the scratched metal.

_"Three!”_

Vega rested one leg behind the other and cocked his hip. Flashy, and completely pointless for anyone who didn’t share Vega’s unorthodox style of combat.

_“Two!”_

“Don’t hold back on me,” Sagat called.

_“One!”_

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” came the reply.

_“Round one, fight!”_

Sagat would have liked to say he’d been a true professional. He’d love to say that he’d treated this fight as a true comeback for his career, and focused on nothing more than victory. That would have been a lie.

The truth was, those few short minutes in the cage were the most fun Sagat had had in years, and he enjoyed every goddamn second of it.

Vega struck first. He always did. Sagat ducked under the swipe of blades and aimed a kick for Vega’s legs. Vega jumped over the strike and turned it into a tackle, which Sagat dodged with ease. It was the beginning of a dance. Two skilled performers, each knowing the other’s style nearly as well as they knew their own. And when the first strike was finally landed (on Sagat’s part, thank you very much), the show began in earnest.

Once again, and more intensely than ever before, Sagat’s heart ached at just how fascinating Vega was. Sagat had trained him, yes, but Vega had molded himself into this beautiful, bizarre _thing_ of a man all on his own. Sagat held control of the ring’s floor, but Vega took to the sides of the cage, climbing the bars and attacking from the air in all sorts of strange contortions to give him an edge over his opponent. Sagat was delighted as Vega’s claws drew blood from him; Vega had listened. No holding back.

However, Sagat wasn’t quite planning to hold himself to the same standard. True cage fights weren’t supposed to be scripted, but Sagat had an ending in mind for this particular one. One that would make everyone happy. He waited until the fight had lasted long enough to satisfy, then went for it.

With a cry of exhilaration, Vega leapt from the upper corner of the cage. He aimed his wicked blades at the broad expanse of Sagat’s back. Sagat whirled around and caught him by the neck, taking Vega’s lithe momentum and using it to slam him on the ground. It was a rough throw. It tore a groan from Vega and stunned him for just a moment. In the cage, a moment was all the time a good fighter needed.

The crowd reached a fever pitch, recognizing that Sagat had a perfect opportunity for a knockout blow. Sagat stood above his champion, raising his foot with a smile.

“Looks like the old man’s still got it.”

Behind his mask, Vega’s eyes went wide.

Sagat aimed a brutal kick at Vega’s head. It was a simple but effective finisher, and one Sagat had used a dozen times before. This time, however, he aimed wide. His approach was off just enough to give a perceptive fighter the chance to divert it. And Vega saw that. Why wouldn’t he? He’d learned from the best.

Vega caught his ankle and pulled Sagat off his feet. He seized the opportunity to roll on top of his boss, pinning him to the ground and aiming his claw at Sagat’s neck. When Sagat swallowed, he felt his throat brush against three deadly points. He was trapped. Slowly and with a smile, Sagat raised his hand in surrender.

The announcer rushed back into the spotlight. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! Vega remains undefeated!”

Vega didn’t move for several moments after the proclamation of his victory. He didn’t even seem to care about the fans screaming his praises; out of character for him. He remained atop Sagat, his bare chest raising and lowering with exhausted breaths. It was impossible to tell what his expression was under the mask, but his eyes looked...sad? Irritated, maybe?

Maybe he was imagining things. Sagat gently pushed the claw away from his neck. “Looks like the apprentice truly has surpassed the master.”

Vega climbed off him and said nothing. He wouldn’t say anything at all until Sagat saw him later that night.

The guests had packed up and headed home. His employees had retreated, either to bed or to their nighttime shifts. Sagat himself was contemplating turning in for the night when three long blades embedded themselves in the wall next to his head and changed his plans.

Sagat gave his assailant little more reaction than a raised eyebrow. “Good evening to you, too.”

Vega wasn’t interested in small talk. Sagat noticed he hadn’t changed out of the clothes he’d worn for the match. “You told me: ‘Fight my hardest.’ You told me: ‘Do not hold back.’”

“I did.”

“But you did not afford me the same courtesy. You threw the match. Why? To charm me?”

Sagat made a show of thinking about it. “Yes. And no. But mostly yes.”

“You lied, Sagat,” Vega said, and there was genuine upset in his words. “You lied to the people and you lied to me.”

Sagat blinked. Of all the reactions he’d been expecting from his champion, this wasn’t one. “I...suppose I did.”

“Lying is an ugly act. It does not impress me.” Vega pulled his blades free and jabbed them over his shoulder, in the direction of the ring. “Get back there and fight the way I know you can.” He stepped back, opening his arms in a gesture that said everything. “You want me, Sagat? You must earn me.”

Ah. An invitation Vega knew he couldn’t refuse.

Oddly enough, the cage looked much smaller without the crowd pressing in on it. Vega had only turned on enough lights to illuminate the ring itself. The rest of the room was plunged into darkness.

“No audience,” Sagat observed. “No bets. No distractions. A true test of skill, hm?”

“If you want to fight your way into my pants, you are going to do it right.”

Sagat laughed. “That’s fair.”

As they climbed back into the cage, Sagat commented, “I realized something. This is the most talkative I’ve ever heard you. Maybe I should piss you off more often.”

He was fairly sure he sensed a smile beneath Vega’s mask. “Don’t get used to it.”

In the next breath, Sagat was blocking a blow to his head. Let the games begin, he supposed.

Maybe it was his lingering frustration with his boss, but Vega fought ruthlessly. The cage became a stage of chaos. Clanging bars and the assorted human noises of violence echoed out into the dead room. Even as he was fending off potentially deadly attacks and giving plenty of his own in return, Sagat couldn’t help admiring the view. During Vega’s early days in the club, he’d had an idle conversation with one of his men that came back to him now.

_“Weird guy you’ve got there, Sagat. The way he fights, the claw, the mask, his whole act...it’s like he’s making himself out to be some goddamn exotic animal.”_

_“He is,” Sagat agreed. “A vicious, wild animal. Who’s so graceful that people can’t help but want to-”_

_“Fuck him.”_

_Sagat nearly choked on his drink laughing. “I was going to say ‘tame him.’ But I suppose you’re not wrong.”_

Regardless of Vega’s skill, or how tempting it was to stop fighting and just _watch_ him, Sagat was going to honor his promise. He fought with his whole heart. There was no clock, and Sagat had no idea how long their violent dance lasted this time. Long enough for both of them to be coated in sweat. Sagat’s heart wanted to pound out of his chest; it was understandably confused about being strained so hard in one sitting after a long break. It had company: The muffled rasp of strained breathing came from beneath Vega’s mask.

Funnily enough, Vega almost got the upper hand on him fair and square this time. Sagat was too slow in blocking a kick to his chest, and the resulting crash into the cage caught him off guard. Vega saw the opportunity and pushed forward with his attack, trying to herd Sagat into a corner. If Sagat had been just a little more tired, a little slower, the match would have ended the moment his back hit the corner of the cage.

Sagat didn’t let that happen. He feinted, let Vega aim a counter strike at his shoulder, ducked low, and brought his champion to one knee with a vicious kick. Vega gasped at the sudden pain and made to recover the upper hand, but Sagat had other ideas. Within the next breath, Sagat had Vega pinned to the floor, the shining metal of his mask taking on a few new scratches as his cheek scraped the concrete. Sagat knelt on his back, keeping Vega’s arms pinned firmly behind his body as he divested him of his prized claw.

Were Vega his enemy - or just someone he didn’t care about - Sagat would have tossed the claw out of the cage without care, to disarm him fully. But he knew how much Vega cared about the unusual weapon; Vega spent nearly as much time cleaning and oiling his blades as he did preening his own appearance. Sagat slid the claw just out of reach; just far enough to send the message. _You’ve lost._

Vega’s soft, deep laughter was muffled behind his mask. “Alas. I’ve been pierced by the bull’s horns.”

“That’s what happens when the bull doesn’t hold back.”

“Indeed.” Vega shifted beneath him and tensed the muscles of his arm in Sagat’s grip. It wasn’t an escape attempt. He was feeling out the extent of Sagat’s strength. “I’d say this creature has proved his worth to me at last.”

It was Sagat’s turn to laugh. “The creature is flattered.”

Vega turned his head and faced Sagat as best he could. His dark eyes were blown out, hungry with something other than the thrill of a good fight.

That made two of them.

“Well?” Vega said. “Victory is yours. Claim your prize.”

A shudder ran through Sagat upon hearing those words in that accent. “If that’s what you wish.”

Vega’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me _you_ are the one who wants to back out now.”

Sagat echoed Vega’s reply from earlier in the night. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He gripped the end of Vega’s braid and wrapped the long hair tight around his fist. He tugged gently, forcing Vega’s head back and holding it still as the fingers of Sagat’s other hand traced the edge of his mask. Vega made a soft grunt, and began to say, “You-”

“Vega. If you insist on keeping the mask on, you’re fired.”

Sagat felt the other man sigh as he removed the mask for him. Hot breath brushed against his palm. It gave him ideas. He sat the mask down with as much care as he’d shown Vega’s weapon, then pushed his fingers past Vega’s lips into the wet heat of his mouth.

As Vega dutifully sucked at his fingers, he seemed to notice for the first time that his arms were no longer restrained. When he moved them, Sagat prepared to be shoved off; Vega seemed like the type who’d want to make sleeping with him as much of a challenge as fighting him. Instead, Vega reached back until his hands found Sagat’s thighs. Sharp nails dug into hard muscle as Vegas squeezed his legs. Damn if it didn’t feel good.

When Sagat eased his weight off Vega’s body and pushed him onto his back, he was a little surprised to see a full hardness straining at the front of his tight pants. They hadn’t been touching each other for long. Then again, fighting was foreplay enough for men like them.

As tempting as it was to rip Vega’s minimal clothing from his body, Sagat once again took the courteous route. He untied the sash around Vega’s narrow waist with careful fingers. He couldn’t, however, resist showing off just a little. He pulled last knot out with his teeth.

Vega had propped himself up on his elbows to watch him work. “What a gentleman you are.”

“When you work hard to get something, it’s good business sense to treat it with care.”

Vega closed his eyes, an amused little smile on his face. “You’ve already won me, Sagat. There is no need to flatter me more.”

“No need? Really? Tell me: Do you enjoy flattery?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then I will keep giving it to you. Now, let’s discuss this another time. There are more...pressing matters at hand.” Or in hand, as it were. Sagat tugged Vega’s pants down his hips and wasted little time attending to Vega’s arousal with the fingers that had just been in his mouth. Vega propped himself up on his elbows and watched the movement of his boss’s scarred hand with hooded eyes.

“You are full of surprises, Sagat,” Vega muttered. “I expected you to be a selfish lover.”

Sagat tightened his fingers around the base of Vega’s cock. Not hard enough to be painful, but enough to get him a small moan. “You wound me,” Sagat said, the offense feigned. “If I only cared about my own pleasure, I could have any number of partners. Not everyone is as pricey as you, you know.” He leaned close, nudging Vega’s chin up with his free hand. “But…you weren’t wrong. I am being selfish.”

He lowered his head and pressed a kiss to Vega’s smooth lips. Were they not half naked and fully hard, the short kiss would have been chaste.

“I take my pleasure by enjoying the beautiful things in life,” Sagat explained. “And what I want tonight, more than anything, is to watch your face as I make you fall apart.”

Vega gave him smile full of teeth. “Are you asking me to put on a good show for you?”

“Like you do every night.”

Vega wrapped a broad arm around Sagat’s neck, pulling him closer yet. His lips brushed against Sagat’s ear as he spoke. “You got it, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Their relationship changed that night, in the hot lights and humid air of the cage. But not as much as one might think. Vega was still Vega. And Sagat found himself charmed by his fighter’s ever-present idiosyncrasies.

For example: The hair.

For as long as Sagat had known him, Vega had never been seen with his hair down. The flawlessly groomed braid had become part of the cage fighter’s image; a full package with the mask and claw. Sagat was beginning to suspect Vega slept with the damn braid in. Until he walked into Vega’s quarters one night and found him in front of the mirror. Thick, dark hair spilled over his bare shoulders and back. Some of the strands fell just so over his chest, looking as though the serpent carved into his skin was about to swallow them.

It was an intoxicating sight. Sagat would have been content to stand there and admire it, but Vega had other ideas. As soon as two eyes met one in the mirror, Vega stood, knuckles white around the jade comb in his hand. One of Sagat’s many gifts.

“I am not ready,” Vega announced. “Leave me.”

Sagat didn’t. “You look fine to me.”

His deliberateness was obtuse. He knew full well the extent of Vega’s vanity. To Vega, being seen in a state he deemed unpolished was an invasion of privacy far more grave than stripping him bare and screwing him into the ground.

Wordless, Vega walked to the door and began to shove it closed. Sagat stuck his foot between the door and its frame. Expensive imported wood slammed against expensive imported leather. Dark eyes stared up at Sagat through the small opening, the challenge in them clear. _You are my superior, and I allow you certain indulgences, but my loyalty has its limits._

Sagat could call his bluff. He could push his way inside the room and assert the fact that he had both the strength and the authority to do so. But another important skill in business was knowing when to pull instead of push.

“My apologies for intruding,” Sagat said, removing his foot from the door frame. “But I suggest you wear your hair down more often. It suits you. Makes you even more beautiful.”

The flash of flattered surprise in Vega’s eyes before he nodded and closed the door told Sagat he’d made the right move. As did the fact that, a few days later, Vega drove the crowd wild by walking into the ring with his hair styled immaculately loose.


End file.
